


Day 18: Muffled Scream

by Aelaer



Series: Whumptober 2019 [18]
Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Blood and Injury, Cults, Gen, Hurt Stephen Strange, Rituals, Torture, Whipping, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 21:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21204038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelaer/pseuds/Aelaer
Summary: "Today, I ask of the Unclosing Eye a small boon. The tribute present has besmirched the name of the Greatest of the Old Ones, and I would beg the Withering Devourer to not only take our tribute, but to utterly destroy the world that birthed him for his blasphemy."Stephen, at this point, really regretted mentioning H.P. Lovecraft at all.





	Day 18: Muffled Scream

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry Stephen. I don't know why I hurt the characters I love. Mind the tags, but for the most part, I don't believe the descriptions are overly graphic. Please let me know if you believe otherwise.
> 
> For new readers, the story will make a lot more sense if you read the first three parts.
> 
> Part 1: [Day 9: Shackled](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21076163)  
Part 2: [Day 13: Alt #16 - Bound](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21130214)  
Part 3: [Day 16: Alt #7- Winded](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21179225)
> 
> Also fills badthingshappenbingo's square "Whipping".

Stephen was not entirely sure when the occultists came back for him, but there was a knock on his cell door, a quick whispered conversation between his guards, and suddenly they were unlocking the chain from the floor and pulling him to his feet.

He had little choice but to follow them as they tugged on the chain to get him to move. Still unable to speak, he let his hard look speak for him as he was led like a beast out of the cell and down the halls until they came to a rather large chamber made primarily of an indeterminable grey stone. Blue and red fires dotted the braziers and scones scattered about the room, giving only a dim light to the three dozen odd people present. They didn't all have matching robes, so that was a cliche they managed to avoid. Good for them.

That inward praise went immediately out the window as he was led forward and saw the large altar. _Of course_ they had a fucking altar. It was significantly larger than the average altar; while it only rose about a foot and a half off the ground, it was a good ten feet long and six feet wide, at least. The sides were decorated in what appeared to be reliefs of some sort of snakes and large, all-seeing eyes (never in pairs, though; the eyes stood alone in the entanglement of snakes… or maybe vines. It was hard to tell. Probably snakes).

His captors forced him up on the altar, then pushed him again to his knees in its center. The chain connected to the collar had its other end locked to a hook built within the altar— and wasn't that nice, they killed people enough on it to build that in. He could see the stains of old, long-dried blood.

He wondered just how much of that blood belonged to other Stephen Stranges.

Stephen grimaced but forced himself not to make any sort of sound as two of them cut his outer robe and shirt off his person. They did not bother to be careful in their work, causing several smaller cuts on his arms, back, and chest, and a more significant one on his upper left shoulder that caused him to clench his teeth. It thankfully did not cut an artery, but it was bleeding at a steady rate.

If Wong and Company didn't get here soon, it would be too late for him. But perhaps it would not be too late for Earth. It _couldn't_ be. He refused to accept that possibility.

He was stripped to the waist and the two left him kneeling, still bound and gagged. The spokesman, surely the leader of these occultists, stepped up on the dais that held the altar and looked out at the rest of them.

"My brothers and sisters!" he began. "Today we come to give honor and thanks to the Greatest of the Old Ones, the Unclosing Eye, The Destroyer Shuma-Gorath! In his great Mercy he has spared our world long, and in his great Benevolence he has granted us an untold number of gifts and powers for our faithful service. Praise be to the Void Made Flesh!"

"Praise be!" the occultists repeated, and Stephen sighed in quiet resignation. He was completely fucked.

"Today," the spokesman continued, "we continue our great Duty in cleansing the Multiverse for the Withering Devourer. For access to all his vast Knowledge and Power, he has asked but a small tribute from his Devoted Followers: the life of Stephen Strange in each world we find him. That we have given, and he continues to show his Greatness in each world conquered thereafter.

"Today, I ask of the Unclosing Eye a small boon. The tribute present has besmirched the name of the Greatest of the Old Ones, and I would beg the Withering Devourer to not only take our tribute, but to utterly destroy the world that birthed him for his blasphemy."

Stephen, at this point, really regretted mentioning H.P. Lovecraft at all.

"Thus the rite we perform today will be of greater length than others as we prepare the tribute properly for the gift we would ask of the Void Made Flesh, the Great Shuma-Gorath. Whatever he may grant us is greater than all that which resides around us! Praise be to him!"

"Praise be!" they repeated.

And then he finally stopped talking, thank the Vishanti. The lead occultist moved out of Stephen's view to go behind him; the doctor in turn stared straight ahead, unbowed and unafraid of his captors, no matter that they may very well take his life. The sorcerers of Kamar-Taj would shortly find them, and they would pay for their crimes; of that he was certain, whether he survived or not.

He heard a short hiss behind him before a painful strike drew itself across his bare back. Involuntarily he grunted in pain. Another strike and he felt his skin tear; he clenched his teeth against the gag and closed his eyes tightly. The doctor wasn't sure what the whip was made of, but whatever it was did not just leave painful welts on his back, but was purposefully barbed in some way to break the skin and draw blood.

Stephen breathed harshly through his nose with the next two hits; he could feel scattered open wounds trickle blood down his back. He attempted to keep his breathing even with the strikes, and to not hold his breath between them. Oxygen was needed. Oxygen was important.

The fifth strike partially caught on his hands.

An involuntary scream clawed its way out of his throat, largely muffled by the gag but certainly audible to the audience watching his suffering. The next strike largely hit his arms and hands and another reflexive muffled shout of pain followed. He attempted to curl his hands inward to protect them, but the manacles offered little movement and he had nowhere to go.

By the time the last stroke fell upon his back, Stephen had long lost count of the number of blows and had only a tenuous thread on consciousness. He was bleeding and bleeding badly, and even if they weren't planning to kill him, just leaving him in this state for a while longer could potentially do the job for them.

The last thing he heard was a muted, "Secure him," before he lost consciousness.


End file.
